Happy Humbug
by Kelly Chambliss
Summary: Aberforth is alone on Christmas Eve. And that's the way he likes it. Set after Deathly Hallows; Moody survives.


**Happy Humbug**

 **By Kelly Chambliss**

\- - / / - -

Seven of the clock on December the 24th.

Christmas Eve.

For a lot of people, it was the most wonderful time of the year. A time for trees and tinsel, snow and sleigh bells, Father Christmas and family, gifts and good cheer.

Or, if you were Aberforth Dumbledore, it was a time to sit in your pub and thank Merlin that you had escaped all that tomfool tommyrot. There wasn't a scrap of tinsel or a coloured bauble to be found in the Hog's Head, and as for plunking a live fir in the corner, Ab would leave the trees growing in the forest where they belonged, thank you very much.

And any wanker who dared wish him a Happy Christmas would be tossed out on their sorry arse faster than they could say "Saint Nick."

Luckily, his regulars knew better than to offer him any Christmas cheer even if they'd felt any, which most of them didn't. The Hog's Head didn't tend to draw the chipper Charlies of the world, which was just the way Aberforth liked it. Even Hagrid wouldn't dare spout season's greetings to Ab, and that poor sod was constitutionally unable to feel curmudgeonly about Christmas. Loved the whole package, he did. Trees and presents and peace on bloody earth and carols. . .the lot. Would sing a dozen choruses of "All I Want for Christmas is a Hippogriff" at the drop of a wand.

There'd been times, in earlier days, when Ab had not been opposed to Christmas, or at least, not opposed to the notion of good will toward his fellows, to a show of warm kindness at the cold end of the year. But those times were past. He'd seen too much in his long life, too much darkness and death and the worst that humans could do to each other.

So as far as he was concerned now, Christmas could get stuffed. Like all of tomorrow's soon-to-be-eaten turkeys.

Seven-ten, and the place was empty. Ab figured he'd give it till eight o'clock and then close up early if no more customers appeared. He still had the goats to tend to.

He poured himself a finger of Ogden's and sipped meditatively. No, he didn't celebrate Christmas, but regardless, a bloke couldn't help but take stock at the end of the year. And give himself a little Ogdenian reward, like, for surviving yet another one.

Especially this year.

The year they'd made it through the war.

Even now, Aberforth could hardly credit it - - the war was over. That child Harry Potter and his ragtag army of mostly kids had taken down the most dangerous dark bastard of the last sixty years. Oh, he'd had help, of course: some pretty powerful witches and wizards had been in his corner, but still. . .

Yes, a celebratory drink was definitely called for. Or two. He could make his own holiday; he didn't need everyone else's idea of forced cheer.

The door opened, bringing a swirl of cold and snow and a familiar sound of wood hitting wood.

Alastor "Mad-Eye" Moody stomped into the pub, shaking a muffler full of snow onto the floor as he sent his great-coat floating over to the row of hooks on the wall.

He settled onto a seat at the bar with a grunt and turned slightly sideways so that he could heft his wooden leg onto the stool next to him. "Dumbledore," he said.

"Moody." Ab raised the bottle of Firewhisky inquiringly, and at Moody's nod, poured out half a tumblerful. The leg must be bothering him if he was propping it up this early. He'd need a good shot of liquid painkiller.

The survival of Alastor Moody had to be one of the more bizarre stories of the war. At least two people had seen him blasted off his broom by Voldemort himself on the night the Order of the Phoenix had transported Harry Potter to the Weasley safe-house. Then later, Potter had seen Moody's magical "mad eye" hanging in the Occupied Ministry of Magic. The man's death had been unquestioned by them all.

Yet a month after the final battle, when teams of volunteers were working to restore Hogwarts, Moody had shown up at the castle wearing an eye patch and demanding to help with repairs.

"What do you take me for, man?" he'd roared, when Kingsley Shacklebolt had asked him how he'd managed to escape what seemed certain death. "I knew what we were facing that night: out in the open on brooms at two hundred feet up. Do you think I didn't have cushioning charms set? Or shields?"

"But I saw Voldemort hit you point-blank with an AK!" Bill Weasley had shouted.

"Ah, that's what you _thought_ you saw, Weasley," Moody had retorted. "But you were wrong. I had it all planned."

Eventually, he'd explained to the Order that he'd actually deliberately fallen off his broom as soon as he'd seen Voldemort's mouth move to start the killing curse, causing the curse just to miss him. His massive cushioning charm had broken his fall, but he'd hit his head, lost his magic eye, and spent most of the next year regaining his health and memory in a Muggle rest home.

Privately, Aberforth thought that Moody's survival was the result of sheer fucking dumb luck, but the rest of the wizarding world loved the story of his planned fall. It certainly did his legend no harm.

Since then, Moody had stopped in the Hogs Head a few times, usually drinking by himself in a corner, his sole human interaction being a nod to Aberforth as he headed out. Taking a seat at the actual bar was something new.

"Snowing like a son of a bitch," Moody said. "Hope the goats are in."

"Aye," said Ab. "Stable's snug as a bug. The goats have got it better than a lot of humans, I reckon."

Moody grunted again and took a slug of whisky. "Have another yourself," he said, jutting his chin towards Aberforth's glass on the bar. "I see you've already started, and this way you won't have to drink up your profits."

Ab poured himself another finger. This chattiness was unlike Moody. Must be the holiday. . .apparently that damned Christmas spirit could do what even his lordiness Lord Voldemort couldn't manage: take down someone as tough as Mad-Eye.

"You got nowhere better to be on Christmas Eve?" he asked, and Moody let out a rough snort of laughter.

"Oh, aye, they begged me to be guest of honour at the Minister's la-di-da ball, but damned if my black tie dress robes aren't at the elf laundry." He let his new magic eye rove around the Hog's Head, taking in the sawdust-covered floor and the stack of broken chairs left over from last night's brawl. Ab hadn't got round to mending them yet. "But who needs posh parties when there's so much Christmas cheer right here, eh, Dumbledore?"

Now it was Aberforth's turn to snort. "I've got exactly as much cheer as I want," he said.

Moody took another drink. "Minerva did ask me to dinner at the castle," he said after a moment. "And drinks with her after."

Ab made a noncommittal noise. Interesting. Rumour had it that Moody had always fancied the headmistress. Some even said that they'd had a bit of a fling years ago. Could be true, but Ab wouldn't know; he always tried to keep as far away from romantic gossip as possible. None of his business.

"Albus was lucky to have her as his deputy," he said. He thought that Minerva McGonagall had been too admiring of Albus by half, but he'd always respected her otherwise stern strength of mind and principle.

"That he was," said Moody. "He took advantage of her, I used to tell Minerva so."

Ab chuckled. "Bet she loved that."

Moody rolled his good eye while his magical one spun around a couple times. "We had a few set-tos over it, that's true," he admitted. "Shouting matches, in fact." He grinned wolfishly. "Good times."

Then he turned serious. "So I had invitations for tonight. Could have done something other than sit here and get drunk. Speaking of which. . . " He lifted his empty glass.

Ab poured a refill. "Nothing wrong with a good drunk every now and then," he said.

"No. It's an odd world, one way or another, you know that. Glad the war's over, but. . ."

"But what now, eh?" Ab said, understanding. "What do we do now?"

"Aye."

They drank together in silence as the fire burned down in the grate, and soft flakes of snow swirled gently outside the windows.

It was past eight o'clock now, but Aberforth made no move to close early. He set a fresh bottle of Firewhisky on the bar and came around to sit next to Moody's outstretched wooden leg.

"You like being a barman, Dumbledore?" asked Moody.

"Been at it sixty years," Ab replied. "I either like it or I'm barmy."

"Or both," they said in unison, and Ab felt himself grinning. If he couldn't spend Christmas Eve with just himself, Moody was not a bad substitute.

Time passed; more whisky was poured. Ab freshened the fire.

"Auroring's a young person's game, they say," Moody ventured.

"Bollocks. Game is for whoever can play it. Hogwarts is in good hands, now. Ministry, too, sounds like. But the world still needs pubs. And Aurors."

"There's still a place for old farts like you and me, is that what you're saying?"

"I'm not saying anything, Moody. I'm just sitting here making meaningless conversation with a daft bugger who hasn't got enough sense to go do his drinking with an intelligent woman who actually seems to want his company."

"Hmmphf." Moody sat, mad eye spinning, and turned his Firewhisky glass in his hand. Then he tossed back the remaining liquor and stood.

"Think I'll be off now," he said, Summoning his greatcoat and muffler. "Maybe drop by the castle. Good whisky; glad you didn't give me the watered-down stuff."

"That's just for the tossers," said Ab. "Daft buggers don't qualify."

Moody jammed a battered hat on his head and opened the door. "Happy Christmas to you, Dumbledore," he said, and stumped out.

Aberforth took a last sip of his whisky. Here he'd been wished a "Happy Christmas," and he hadn't tossed the offender out on his sorry arse.

'Course, there was the little matter of said offender having already departed.

Ab raised his glass to the closed door. "And Happy Christmas to you, Moody."


End file.
